


Cold, Cold Comfort

by redscudery



Series: Redscudery's Rare Pair Bazaar [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Comeplay, Consent, Drunk Texting, M/M, Masturbation, Necrophilia, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Suicidal Thoughts, also ish, and also "oh i guess i would like coming all over a dead body", i'm not sorry at all, ish, like "oh i guess i kind of like being a dead body", look it's a living okay, today's instalment of "the annals of incredibly improbable kink matching"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 07:44:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14351031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: James Sholto thinks he might want to be a dead body. Greg Lestrade thinks he should just pretend to be a dead body.It's the right call. It's so good when we find our people.





	Cold, Cold Comfort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Callie4180](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/gifts), [girlwhowearsglasses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlwhowearsglasses/gifts).



> Written for the flash fiction workshop at 221bcon 2018. My cards were Greg Lestrade, James Sholto, drunk texting, the morgue, and "hands and knees".

James Sholto’s mobile beeped. Twice.

_All right then?_

It was an unfamiliar number. He reached for his other mobile and looked up the number. New Scotland Yard.

He’d better answer, he supposed.

**Who is this?**

_Lestrade. Greg._

The detective. The handsome one. Sholto took another sip of whiskey--being in a private hospital had its advantages, even if it was only booze and soft posh pyjamas.

**Fine. A lot of fuss over nothing. I’m barely hurt.**

_I’m glad you’re not dead._

**Wish I could say the same.** Sholto typed, and drained his glass. Another? It seemed unwise, but so did being sober.

_I’m not far from you, you know. If you need company._

**I barely know you.**

_Which is a shame, isn’t it?_

**Come on then.** Sholto set down the phone again and poured himself another drink.  His bandages were barely noticeable now; if they hurt, though, he’d at least feel something.

He sat back down. John had bandaged him. John, whose wedding he’d seen, and whose eyes showed something he, James, hadn’t wanted to see. He remembered that look in John’s eyes when they’d been invalided out: haunted.

He didn’t want that to be his memory of John now. He tried to call an image of John in his mind that wasn’t haunted or wounded, but all he could call up was…. No. He could call something up: John’s face contorted in ecstasy, breathing harshly.

That was even less help. His cock stayed quiescent, as it always did now. Fuck this life. So. Even if this detective wasn’t who he said he was, did it even fucking matter? He splashed water on his face and downed his whiskey.

He was pouring a third when his phone beeped again.

_They won’t let me in…can you get out?_

**Not out of the hospital.**

_Your room? To the morgue? I can get in there._

**Good place for me. I feel like death.**

_You can get there, then?_

**I’ll be there.**

 

The morgue was a tiny area; only one table, a sink, and a row of three refrigerators. Sholto had seen enough death for a lifetime, but he opened the first of the three anyhow. Empty.

Empty.

Very empty.

He wasn’t disappointed, as such, but he pulled the tray out anyway. Would he fit on it? Probably.

Fuck this life for real. He lay down on the tray. It was awkward, but as soon as he was laid out on the cold steel he felt some of the tension leave his body. He raised his arms—there was pain, a little, and he leaned into it—and pulled himself back into the refrigerator.

Before the door at his feet could shut, the morgue door opened. Greg Lestrade stood there, still in his wedding suit.

“James?”

“Here.” His voice echoed in the refrigerator. Lestrade seemed nonplussed.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

“It’s oddly calming.”

“Glad you’re all right.” Lestrade put his hand on the end of the tray.

“’All right’ seems like a stretch. I’m alive.”

“You don’t quite look it.”

“I don’t quite feel it.”

“You going to do yourself an injury?”

“No.”

“Right. Good.”

“I suppose. Why are you here?”

“I fancied you.” Lestrade’s frank admission was oddly reassuring. Then, a surprise. “Is a shag is what you need right now?”

Sholto thought about his cock. The twitch that had been absent before was no longer absent.

“It might be. I honestly can’t say.” Another twitch.

“I’ll tell you what I’d do, if you wanted. I’d let you get cold, if you like, and then I’d suck you.”

Lestrade’s voice was lower now, and the shock of it hit Sholto deep in the belly.

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Because you need it. And I fucking want to.”

“And what about you?” 

“I’d go on my hands and knees for you, but I bet you want me to do it myself. You want to lie still and let my warm spunk splash on your cold face.”

The room fell silent for a moment. Sholto slowed his breathing. His hands were almost cold now, and he could feel himself feel heavy against the table.

He could feel himself hardening inside the expensive hospital pyjamas.

He wanted this. God, how he wanted this. He closed his eyes and waited. The cooling system switched on and he let the buzz fill his ears.

“You have to tell me you want it.” Lestrade said. His voice was lower still. “If you want it.” He cleared his throat.

“I want it.”

“Oh good.” Lestrade said.  “Now stop talking.” He shut the door.

The light disappeared. The cooling system fell silent. Sholto’s heart felt enormous in his chest.

Lestrade was entirely silent outside. Sholto took one final, deep breath and slowly let the air out of his lungs. As his chest fell, he reached for the chill in his muscles and tracked its spread. No shiver wracked him and he felt an odd surge of pride. 

The minutes moved slowly, and he began to wonder, and dread, when Lestrade would open the door. Arousal was a constant, unfamiliar pressure in his groin, intersecting oddly with the chill in his arse and thighs. He shoved down the urge to arch his hips or to seek pressure from his pyjama trousers. He was dead after all.

His cock leaped. Fuck this life indeed.

The latch clicked, and a sliver of light reflected on the back of the drawer, and Sholto exhaled the most possible air from his lungs as he was drawn into the relative warmth of the morgue itself.

“Fucking techs didn’t do their job. This one’s not even fucking naked.” Lestrade muttered, pulling Sholto’s pyjama top open. “At least they haven’t opened him up yet.” He skimmed Sholto’s chest, his hands a whisper of warmth. Sholto’s nipples were already hard, and Lestrade’s touch was vaguely uncomfortable. Sholto wanted him to do it again, to push against his sensitive spots and his bandages and make him hurt.

Then, Lestrade’s hands were on his hair, tugging. Sholto felt an odd peace as he lay completely neutral and let Lestrade take what he wanted: a slow, warm pressure, a slick of saliva along his lips, a small bite, and then another. The buttons of Lestrade’s jacket scraped against Sholto’s exposed chest as Lestrade reached down to the waistband of the posh pyjamas.

He didn’t pull them down as Sholto had expected. Instead, he gathered a handful of fabric, catching the tip of Sholto’s cock in a rough, perfect grasp.

Sholto exhaled harder than he wanted to into Lestrade’s mouth. Lestrade responded with a fierce bite   that forced him to draw a shaky breath. He willed himself to stay still.

Lestrade drew away.

“Fuck,” he said hoarsely, and stripped off his coat. His blue shirt was already untucked and his hair stood on end. His cock strained against his fine trousers.

Then, he unbuckled his belt with a hiss of relief; his cock sprang out, thick and curved. Sholto clenched his hands at his sides, but he did not move his face. Then, Lestrade’s hands were on him again; his hands pressed ever so slightly on the bandages at his waist before settling at the waistband of Sholto’s pyjama trousers and pulling them roughly down. Sholto’s cock slapped against his belly, hotter than any other part of him.

Lestrade took his own cock in his hand and stroked, his eyes closing for a moment as he rolled his thumb over the broad tip. He let go of himself and pressed his sticky thumb to Sholto’s mouth. It cooled almost immediately; Sholto allowed himself an extra breath in order to catch the salt taste, but it was frustratingly faint.

Lestrade bent and cupped Sholto’s bollocks. Sholto’s cock leaped in the air and Lestrade caught it in his mouth. The roughness of his teeth was everything Sholto had ever wanted…except for the slick wetness of his mouth. But Lestrade had control, and all Sholto could do was wait.  

He didn’t have to wait long. Lestrade was almost as desperate as he was; his breath came quickly as he nipped the end of Sholto’s cock. Then, he let it go, and for a few agonizing moments Sholto thought that Lestrade had changed his mind. But no—Lestrade was taking a swig from a flask, and only a second after the rasp of the closing lid, Sholto was completely enveloped. The whiskey on Lestrade’s tongue burned against the cool silky flesh of his cock. 

It had been so long. He felt more alive on this stainless-steel slab than he had in the last three years.

He didn’t arch up into Lestrade’s mouth. He let that mouth engulf him completely and swallow down his passive flesh. The hot wetness, the press of teeth, the soft sounds—it was as though Lestrade was touching him everywhere at once.  

Then, Lestrade pulled off, slowly, and licked a long, wet stripe up Sholto’s chest.

“Time to cool down,” he said, and, with one hand on his cock, pushed Sholto back into the refrigerator. He was none too gentle, but to Sholto, the swift movement, along with the shock of cold, seemed to be the peak of sensation.

Lestrade didn’t close the door, but stood looking in, his hand on his own cock. Sholto felt rather than saw this, as though every nerve ending in his body leaned towards Lestrade. Untouched as he was, he  felt as though he might spill over any moment, mingling his come with Lestrade’s cooling saliva.

When Lestrade pulled him out, it was no little time later, and Sholto had regained some measure of control—until Lestrade set out to shatter it completely, without so much as touching him. Moving to stand where Sholto couldn’t help but see him, he took himself in hand. His fingers, thick and strong, framed the head of his beautiful cock, so close to Sholto’s mouth. The tip glistened.

“I’m going to come all over you.” Lestrade said, placing one hand flat on the stainless steel by Sholto’s head. “And then I could just leave you here. Put you back in the fridge, let my come cool on your chest. Let you get cold.” His breath was already ragged.

Sholto wanted to close his eyes but he didn’t want to close them. His cock jerked of its own accord, and he felt a drip fall from the tip onto his belly. Lestrade was going to get him off without touching him another time. His voice, his manner, his ruthless commitment to keeping Sholto cold—everything spoke of an almost preternatural understanding of what Sholto wanted. Needed. His cock jerked again.

“You want it, even though you’re cold.” Lestrade growled, a low, filthy hum. He licked his fingers and ran them over the head of his cock, then began to stroke again. The sound of flesh and saliva filled the room.

“I’d fuck you too, right now, if I could,” Lestrade said. “Turn you over on this slab and slide into your cold, cold arse.”

Sholto could feel it as he said it, feel those broad capable fingers breaching him none too gently, feel the thick slick cock tear him apart and fill him up. A long slow breath escaped him, and he drew his next in too quickly.

“Don’t move.” Lestrade came closer and the scent of arousal filled Sholto’s nostrils. Lestrade’s hand slowed. He bit his lip and came with a gasp.

Sholto’s face, lips, and neck were spattered; each drop felt like it sizzled on his skin. Lestrade was leaning over him now, panting, and Sholto discovered that he need to watch him, needed to feel his breath. But he didn’t move, though he desperately wanted to lick his lips…or Lestrade’s lips.

Lestrade bent down and kissed him; the acrid taste of semen filled their mouths. Sholto kept his mouth passive, relishing in the strength it took to keep control. His entire body was one exposed nerve ending and the pain of his arousal was filling him with life and need. Finally. Finally. He exhaled as quietly as he could.

“I’m going to suck you now,” Lestrade said. “Don’t come until I say.” His voice was rough, and his mouth, when it descended, was the gentlest thing in the world. He licked down Sholto’s belly, and, with utmost care engulfed his painful cock. This tender torture seemed to last forever, ebbing and surging in intensity until finally, near a peak of sensation, Lestrade pulled his mouth.

“Come for me now,” he said, grasping Sholto’s cock.

Sholto came. His orgasm seemed to go on and on, waves of pleasure washing over him. He was hot and cold; he was a living man still. He cried out, once, softly, in the quiet of the morgue.

 

“Let’s get you warm,” Lestrade said, almost right away, leaping to pull the dressing gown over Sholto’s torso and chafe his hands. “You’re bloody cold.”

“I’m fine.” Sholto said softly, his voice a little raspy after the silence. It rang pleasantly in his ears, though, for the first time in a long time. “Thank you.” He sat up.

“Thank _you_. You were…marvelous.” The rough Lestrade had been entirely displaced by the kind Lestrade with the rather sheepish smile. He was beautiful.

“It was something special, wasn’t it?” Sholto knew the answer but he needed to hear it said.

“It was. I’m very glad you’re not dead, you know.” Lestrade  stepped in between Sholto’s knees. His body still radiated heat.

“Me too,” Sholto said. “For now.”

“Good enough.” Lestrade answered, and gathered him in his arms.


End file.
